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"Focail do a chara" is Gaelic for "Words for a Friend." I hope you find my poems meaningful, or insightful, or beautiful, or perhaps disturbing. I write about my experiences -- in my study of death and dying, children's health, and mental health; in my teaching; in my spiritual seeking; in my call for social justice and compassionate living. I hope these words find you, friend, and bless you. Please click the "Subscribe" button below to receive a daily email of poetry.

You know where the threshold leads;
the destination calls to you in your dreams.
Yet you want reassurances
and life doesn't play that game.
You will survive the free-falling
stomach-rolling sensation
and land exactly where you are meant to be.

Be the yellow buttercup in a field of clover,
among the purple flowers, yellow ones, which
creep and blend, and infuse the stone
with their natural beauty.
They don't wait to be invited --
their seed was invitation enough.

I am the twig teepee, deep in the clearing of the rhododendron thicket.
Hidden and secret, a refuge for those brave enough to cross the nettle sentries.
I see the purple blossoms, stems,
backstage view of tangled vines and leafy limbs.
Blue sky glimpses through the canopy and sun speckles on the shadowed earth.
I am built by hands but at home in the forest;
open and ready for the weary soul.

There is plenty of room to soar right where you are,
and there are blue skies and white clouds overhead.
Flying does not require planning -- simply take off.
My flight pattern is not yours. There is room in the sky for both of us.

Secret spaces.
Periwinkle flowers peer over the stone wall,
resolute against the howling wind,
and unconcerned with their hair
or loneliness or ache.
Icy fingers thaw in the sun
and random raindrops turn my poem into watercolor beauty.

Reach for unselfconscious excellence and unspeakable joy.
The birdsong is in perfect pitch.

Love is the core survivor,
listen, love, laugh now;
sort it out later.

Bombings and hate,
fear and foreboding,
value judgements on cleanliness and skin.
Your body is not who you are, yet it is all you are.

Privilege prickles the soul;
idols of power, possessions.

You know the secrets, let them pour over you.
Make art with washes of words.

To the gods we are one,
both sides of the fence;
we are killing ourselves and humanity loses her humanness.
See the eyes of the children and weep.

The rain clouds part, catch a vision of light.

What if your promised land is another's hell?
If it's not heaven for all, it's not heaven for any.
Open your eyes, the God of love does not ordain annihilation.
The angels despair at what we have become.

Your fist tightly grasping our desired end is a fist of violence.
Open your hand and let the light reach down.
The God of hope offers life to all.

Searching for home,
for the space in which love is birthed.
Look past the dive bombing bees,
remember there are butterflies nearby,
and they are all necessary for life.
Perhaps the bullies pollinate kindness and community in response.
Just remember to keep your head down,
toward your heart.

Heaven and hell are realities created by us, moment by moment, in what we attend to.

Holy source of love,
the world has lost her humanity, forgetting
the community, generosity of heart,
divine overcomer, miracle-maker, and one who unites,
remind us,
bless us, transform the lost kindnesses,
missing truths,
turn hatred into holiness;
lift up the left out, those laying down, sitting down, standing down.
Let righteous indignation act courageously,
create a just world.
Show us a win, hope into action.
We speak for the voiceless.
May the overcomer of death overcome death again
in our lifetime.

In my academic life, I study and teach about end-of-life communication, children's health, and mental health. I combine arts-based methods with the study of the health experience. I have a passion for social justice and deep compassion for people who are vulnerable and marginalized.